I Am Not A Hero
by theconsultingdreamer
Summary: Sherlock once said he wasn't a hero. Now, John is out to prove that he isn't a hero, either. Heavy angst, post Reichenbach.


So, I haven't posted in a while, and I haven't written Sherlock in a while! I had the phrase 'I am not a hero' stuck in my head, and this happened. Sorry for any feels I bring about.

Sherlock once said he wasn't a hero. John didn't believe him. In his eyes, Sherlock was a hero; he was John's hero. He had stepped into John's life when everything was starting to seem utterly hopeless, and brought life into it once again. In those first months after the injury, living by himself, he had thought of suicide more than once. Those thoughts had left his mind almost immediately after meeting Sherlock.

Sherlock had once, in passing, told John that while he himself was not a hero, many people consider the two jobs John had done to warrant someone a hero. The fact that John was both a soldier and a doctor meant people might see him as twice the hero. John couldn't wrap his head around this.

But, when he needed to be a hero most, he wasn't. When he needed to save the life of his best friend, he couldn't. He watched helplessly as he couldn't talk his best friend off of the ledge. The image of Sherlock throwing his phone and taking the final step off the ledge was forever burned into his brain. He wasn't a hero; he couldn't get to his best friend fast enough to save his life. What a doctor he was, watching as the blood drained from Sherlock's body onto the pavement. He couldn't save him. John Watson was not a hero; he was a despicable human being.

And, a month after the funeral, a month of being alone in a flat that meant nothing to him now without it's other inhabitant, he couldn't take it anymore. He was done wallowing in his misery, living with ghosts. He stood up, tucked his gun into the waistband of his pants, and headed out to hail a cab.

For the first time in a month, John stood in front of Sherlock's grave. He took a breath. "You said you weren't a hero. You said I was."

He paused, as if waiting for the answer of a friend who couldn't hear him. "I am not a hero. You need me to prove that? Fine. I will. I will prove it to everyone that I am not a hero."

And with that, he turned and marched away from the cemetery. Something in John had died when Sherlock did, and something inside him had snapped when he saw Sherlock's violin gathering dust this morning, and realized that his best friend, the only person who made him feel alive, was never coming back.

An old friend of John's noticed him walking down the street quickly, as if he had somewhere to be and couldn't be late. This old friend opened her mouth to say hello, but when his eyes, which were sweeping the crowd, fell on her, the greeting died in her throat. John's eyes had always been kind, always offered a bit of compassion. Now there was nothing in those eyes but cold indifference.

John marched into an alleyway, his eyes latching on a couple men smoking in the back. His hand touched the gun in his waistband, the smooth, cold metal seemed to vibrate. _You are not a hero _it whispered to him. _Not a hero, not a hero, not a hero…_

One of the men raised his hand by way of greeting when John pulled the gun out. "Whoa, we don't want any trouble mister!" The man dropped his smoke. John pulled back the hammer. "I am not a hero." He whispered, and pulled the trigger.

The second man's screams mixed with the sound of a second gunshot.

Four hours later, sitting on the roof of the Pathology building of St. Bart's, John sat cradling the gun in his lap. He heard the door open behind him. "John…" a voice said, tone full of regret.

"Lestrade." There was no emotion in John's voice.

"Why would you do this? Killing nine people, why are you doing this?" Lestrade took a breath. "I have to arrest you John, I have to. But just, tell me why, please?"

John turned to look at Lestrade. The inspector's breath choked off as he stared into the eyes of what was John Watson. This wasn't John Watson. That man had died when Sherlock had. This, this was nothing but a shell, a cold and empty shell of a great man. Lestrade had a moment of déjà vu, thinking back to when he saw Sherlock's corpse. The cold and empty shell of a great man.

Offering up the only answer he could, John said in a voice that didn't tremble at all, "I am not a hero." And with that, he brought the gun to his head and pulled the trigger.


End file.
